The Sea Wyrm
by dmoore.ade
Summary: A young man living in Morley, living a penniless and desperate life of survival on the streets, finds himself on the wrong end of a blade and drowning in the dark depths of the ocean. There he meets a black-eyed young man who offers him a gift-a gift that has a price.
1. Chapter 1

**Dishonored 2**

The Sea Wyrm

Chapter One

Damian Jacks had stayed out too late, and with too little to show for it. The fish he'd caught would barely be enough to keep him going for the week; less if Alexandria came to see him again. But none of that would matter if he never made it home.

The cobble streets that ran along the shoreline were poorly lit. Only the cold light of the moon and the occasional dim, flickering glow of an oil lantern in someone's window led Jacks home. The dark corners, Jacks knew, were not to be trifled with. He stuck to what little light he could find, because, Jack remembered, _'to stray from the path is to get lost in the dark. And it's in the dark where you will find the danger.'_

His father's words. He had spoken of rats and weepers at the time, when the rat plague was still fresh in everyone's heads. But it had been a decade since the plague, and the only thing Jacks worried about when he peered into the dark was the Hooks.

Jacks heard something clatter up the street beyond and flinched. He pulled his rucksack closer to his body and slowed his pace, pressing himself against a wall and staring into the semi-dark in front of him. He watched the shadows, his breath clouding in the cold and damp, watching for movement-but there was none.

Satisfied, Jacks continued on his way. The fear and the chilly night air pulled at his body, asking him if it wouldn't be easier to just curl up somewhere and sleep, sleep forever, sleep until this hard life was behind him. But Jacks ignored that voice inside him, as he had his whole life, and thought about the good things. Fresh bread. A stiff drink. The comfort of a loved one. Alexandria.

Alexandria. A Serkonan girl with thick, dark hair and tan skin. Shining brown eyes and quick with a smile. And a damn fine cook.

She had come to Caulkenny seeking her fortune. As many of the denizens of Caulkenny had pointed out upon her arrival, she had come to the wrong place for that. Caulkenny was the place you left when you wanted to seek fortune. The only ones who ever came here were selling fish and cheap whiskey. The rest could never afford to leave.

None of this fazed Alexandria. She got a job pouring beer for the sailors that passed through town, and she lived in what Alexandria called a _youth hostal,_ a kind of big, old house shared by a group of different young men and women. She hated it, though, and spent many of her nights with Jacks.

Jacks focused on those nights as he headed towards the bridge. He thought of the warmth of her pressed up against him; wrapped around him. Her laughter. Her optimism-that one day they'll escape Morley for good and she'll take Jacks to Serkonos, where the wine flows like water and it never gets cold.

 _One day,_ Jacks thought, stepping onto the bridge. He was almost home. _One day._ The bridge creaked beneath his feet. Jacks stared beneath the planks of wood at the rushing water beneath, washing dirt and waste out into the churning ocean. _One day._ The bridge creaked again, only it was not Jacks' doing. He froze and looked up.

Harold Caulfield stood at the end of the bridge, hands in the pockets of his long, leather coat. He grinned lopsidedly at Jacks. "Hello, Jacksy. You're out awfully late."

"Later than I intended," Jacks replied slowly. The bridge creaked again, and Jacks turned to see two more boys standing behind him. They wore the same kind of trenchcoats as Jack, and they wore the same kinds of grins.

"Haven't seen you much since we left school," Harold said, walking languorously towards Jacks. "Saw you once at the Squid's End, though. Flirting with that Serkonan barmaid. Can't blame you. She's a fit one." Jacks chewed his tongue, holding back the anger that flared within him.

"I work a lot," Jacks said. "Have a drink when I can. Same as the rest of us."

"And go out for midnight strolls?" Harold looked at Jacks' rucksack. "What's in the bag?" Jacks knew Harold would take the fish if he told him. Food was a commodity here, and gangs liked to control commodities. But if the other option was getting hurt, or worse, Jacks knew what he had to say.

"Fish," he said honestly. "Borrowed one of the rowboats from work. Good way to bring some extra food to the table."

"I'm sure," Harold said. "Got any to spare? You know, for an old friend and that."

"Sure, Harold," Jacks said bitterly. He lowered the bag to the ground and pulled out four of the six trout he'd managed to catch, wrapped in cloth.

"Say, Damian." Jacks looked up to see the gleaming point of a whaler's hook, held in Harold's thin, pale hand, inches from his face. "Why don't you just hand over the whole bag. Be easier in the long run, don't you think?"

Jacks slid the fish back into his rucksack and handed it to Harold. "Much obliged," Harold said.

"I need to get home," Jacks said, defeated.

"Of course, of course. Just one more thing." Jacks looked at Harold. "You're out after curfew."

"What?"

"Curfew, Jacksy. Hadn't you heard? Us Hooks been putting some rules in place. Need to keep the citizens safe at night. After all the happenings in Dunwall-murder and betrayal, Empress gone missing, assassins and witchery getting the Overseers all in a tizzy-world's a dangerous place nowadays. We want to care of our people."

"I didn't know about any curfew. I don't have any money," Jacks said. "I can-I can catch you fish. I can pay you that way."

"Oh, Damian, no." Jacks cocked his head. He could hear the other two boys coming up behind him. "We've already decided on your payment."

The Hooks behind Jacks grabbed him, holding him against the edge of the bridge. "Harold, please." The fear again. Gnawing at his bones.

"I've learned more since we left school than I ever learned in school. You know that, Jacksy?" Jacks stared at Harold, unable to move, unable to breathe.

"I used to think the world was about… About proving yourself. Showing you're not to be fucked with. But that was only the tip of the iceberg, ya know?" Harold pulled the rucksack over his shoulders, and played with the hook in his hand. "Ever since getting with the Hooks, I realized what the world's really about. It's about _power_. You find power, you don't need ta prove yourself ta nobody. Power gives you control. Over them who don't have power." Harold gripped the hook tightly. "I'm sorry, Jacksy. I really am. But you? You don't got power."

The Hook landed in Jacks' side with a wet, spongy _thunk,_ and a searing flash of pain. Jacks cried out in agony-just as Harold's croneys threw him off the bridge.

Jacks' body was caught up in the current immediately, tossed and turned and whisked straight out into the waves. Jacks flailed against the current, his side burning where the Hook cut into him and his body cold, trapped in the dark waves.

His head broke above the water once or twice, and he gasped for a little breath, but mostly got salty sea foam. Amidst the currents dragging him under, Jacks felt a numbness seep into him. He'd felt it before, creeping at the edge of his consciousness every time he went too long without eating, or without drinking clean water, or every time he got sick. It was the numbness of death.

When the momentum of the drainpipe began to subside, a good ways out into the ocean, the numbness had crept so deep into Jacks that his limbs had stopped moving properly. His mouth slid open against his will, letting the cold ocean water down his throat and into his lungs. Jacks felt his body sink, and saw the last of the moonlight above fade into nothing; only the darkness of the depths to keep him company.

And it was there, in the overwhelming darkness, in that tiny sliver of purgatory between the last moments of his life and the first of his death, Jacks heard the voice.

" _Oh, Damian. The world has not been kind to you."_

Another current. It pulled him now, instead of pushing him. It pulled him further down. The weight of the water hade made Jacks feel heavy and sluggish, but the new current was slowly making him feel lighter, and lighter, and _lighter,_ until he was no longer sinking-he was falling.

Jacks dreamed of a colossal whale, bigger than any seen by man, bigger than any ship made to traverse the ocean, and pale as bone. A leviathan of legend. It looked at Jacks with gleaming black eyes and spoke in a hard-edged voice.

" _You have fought so hard, desperately trying to carve a place for yourself in the fathomless enormity of existence. And for what? A blade between the ribs and lungs full of seawater. It was all for naught."_

Jacks opened his eyes and saw darkness. Then he opened them again, and retched.

Oily green water expelled from his lungs, splattering across pale grey stone. Jacks coughed and gasped for air, blinking away the salt in his eyes, and rolled onto his back.

Above him stretched boundless black skies. In the distance Jacks could see shapes floating against the horizon: grey, amorphous blocks of stone like that which he lay on now. Gentle, haunting melodies like whale songs floated through the air, sending shakes down Jacks' spine.

He pulled himself to his feet and staggered away from the edge of the stone, which dropped off into the nothingness, and looked around. A set of stairs led up into a stone structure floating some ways above, where blue and yellow torchlight burned and flickered.

There, silhouetted against the torchlight, was a young man. More than a boy, but not yet fully a man, and with the blackest eyes Jacks could never have imagined looking upon.

"You've been at the mercy of the world for too long, Damian," the young man said. "I think it's time we spoke."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Alexandria woke in the middle of the night, aware that something was wrong, but still half asleep and unable to figure out what it was. Then, the empty void next to her-the antithesis to the warm comfort of Damian's body curled up against hers-told the truth.

"Jacks?" She called out into the empty home. Jacks had inherited his family home many years ago, and though he paid no rent, he had sold almost all of his family's belongings to keep the home maintained. The floors were barren and the walls empty, the only furniture the bed and a musty old chair next to the fireplace.

"Damian," Alexandria called again, and got out of bed, a sickly knot of dread tying itself inside her stomach. She pulled on her trousers and wrapped a blanket around her shoulders, walking across the cold room and checking the kitchen. The dishes from last night's stew remained dirty in the sink. Alexandria remembered laughing at Jacks when stew dripped down his chin from drinking too eagerly, and kissing him afterwards.

 _Thunk, thunk, thunk._ Heavy footsteps came up the stairs outside. "Jacks, is that-" Alexandria's voice caught in her throat. Muffled voices resonated from beyond the front door, and there was more than one set of footsteps.

As a child growing up in Serkonos' Dust District, Alexandria had learned quickly how to sense danger. Drunken miners and malevolent gangs forced everyone in the Dust District to adapt, to evolve above the weak and the helpless; you learned how to avoid danger, or you learned how to fight it. If you couldn't manage either, you wouldn't survive.

Fortunately, Alexandria evolved to learn both. She learned that it was always better to avoid a fight, but fights couldn't always be avoided. And she refused to let others take what was hers without one hell of a fight.

Keys jangled outside the door and scraped against the lock. _Doesn't know which key to use. But must have Jacks' keys, or wouldn't be trying to get in. Why? How did they get the keys?_ Alexandria pushed the thoughts aside. She drew a knife from the rack next to her and stepped backwards, keeping her gaze on the door as she felt for the window. She grasped the latch with her fingers and unhinged it.

 _Click._ The door unlocked. Alexandria hid the knife behind her back and stepped forward out of the kitchen. The door swung open.

Harold and his cronies stepped inside. Harold sneered at Alexandria and tossed Jacks' rucksack to the floor. "I bloody knew it," he said. "Old Jacksy has been pegging the Serkonan girl all along. You're slumming it, sweetheart," he drawled, and shrugged off his long, leather coat.

"Who the hell are you? Where's Jacks?" Alexandria asked firmly.

"Oh, he's a bit preoccupied at the moment. Went for a nightly swim." The cronies snickered. Alexandria scowled. "Before he left, he told us to come over and keep you company. I'm an old friend of his, you see."

Harold drew his whaler's hook off his belt and started towards Alexandria. She took a step back, knees bent slightly, and pulled the blanket off her shoulders. "That's right. Take some of them rags off, won'tcha? Get comfortable." His eyes were drawn to the burlap trousers she wore. "Why don't we start with those?" He gestured to them with his hook.

"Lady such as you shouldn't be wearing a man's britches. You should be wearing some kind of a frilly dress." Harold turned his head to look at the thugs. "Don't you think, boys? We should get her-"

 _Whoomph._ The blanket landed squarely over Harold's head, and the knife entered his stomach before he had a chance to react. He slashed wildly with the hook, but blinded and in pain, hit nothing.

Alexandria ripped the knife free of his flesh and reared back, kicking with all her might. Jacks went flying right into his thugs, and the three of them toppled against the wall.

Spinning around, Alexandria darted to the window and flung it open. She leapt over the counter and tucked herself into a ball, rolling herself through and onto the balcony beyond.

Gripping the knife blade between her teeth, Alexandria leapt across to the balcony across the street and swung herself over to a drainpipe, sliding down it to the cobblestones below. There she turned and ran, bare feet slapping hard against the wet ground.

She ran with no real direction. Only one goal-to find Jacks. If he was still alive.

The cracked marble dinner table was immaculately set, with fine silver cutlery and plates, a regal purple tablecloth beneath it. There was no food in sight, however, and sitting at that table, looking across at the boy with black eyes, Jacks had to wonder if he ate at all.

"Am I dead?" Jacks asked, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.

"You may as well be," he replied. "The world has taken so much from you. Your family. Your dignity. And now your food. All you have left is an empty home, and a girl with a life almost as desperate as yours." The boy smiled. "I must admit, I expected to meet her long before I would see you, Damian. Alexandria has a propensity for survival that many would envy."

As Jacks listened to his words, faint memories trickled into his mind. No, not memories; something much more powerful. Stories. Chilling bedtime tales passed from ear to ear. Tales of a pale young man who would visit you while you slept and whisper things he shouldn't know in your ear. A being who could give you incredible gifts, at the risk of unfathomable consequences.

"Who are you?" Jacks asked. "Are you-him?"

"You know the answer to that," the Outsider replied. "What matters now is where you choose to go from here." His shape flickered and moved, and he was suddenly at Jacks side, hand outstretched. "I can give you the strength to go on. To reclaim what is yours, and to claim even more."

"I don't know," Jacks replied hesitantly, remembering the stories.

"Or, you can continue from where I found you, Damian. Lungs full of seawater, crushed beneath the waves. Another anonymous body washed out to sea, remembered by no one but a simple Serkonan girl and the deranged man who killed him. Alexandria would mourn you, but in time, she would move on. Perhaps even find happiness again. But your death would always leave a mark on her soul."

"Sounds like no choice at all," Jacks muttered.

"If you leave here with my gift, all that will lie in front of you will be choices. Where will you go? What will you do with what I bestow upon you? Your decisions could leave even more of an impression upon Alexandria than your death. Your decisions could leave a mark upon the world."

Jacks stared at the glinting black eyes, and then looked at the hand, fingers pale and outstretched like thin, white branches of a dead tree.

He reached out and grasped them. Jacks gasped in pain, a burning sensation erupting from behind his knuckles. He tried to wrench free of the Outsider's grip, but it was no use; those fingers held onto him like a vice. Jacks watched his hands as markings grew, burned into the skin from the inside, flickering with blue and yellow flame. A symbol was drawn from the markings, like some kind of rune in the shape of a jagged star.

"As I leave my mark on you, so shall you leave one upon the world," the Outsider said quietly. He relinquished Jacks' hand, which he promptly pulled away. He stroked the marking to find it cold to the touched. "But what kind of mark will yours be?"

The Outsider flickered like a dying flame and disappeared. Jacks stood up, disoriented, a sudden pounding making itself known in his head. The stone beneath his feet rumbled and gave way, and once again Jacks was falling. Falling into darkness.

Dawn was breaking.

Inside the Squid's End storeroom, tucked between a sack of potatoes and a barrel of salted pork, Alexandria watched the first warm columns of sunlight illuminate the dust in the air.

The barkeep had let her in during the night. He was a kind man whose wife hailed from Bastillian, and had taken a liking to the Serkonan girl with the strong spirit. They had lain some blankets down in the storeroom and let Alexandria rest, shivering and cold from being out in the night with only her burlap breeches, a loose shirt, and a knife to keep her safe.

She hadn't slept. The thought of Jacks' lifeless body floating beneath the waves had kept her awake and afraid. She refused to cry; not until she saw him dead, she told herself. Then she could cry. Until then, she would look for him. She would start back at home, to see if Harold and his Hooks were still around, and try to gather some of her belongings. Then she would set out to find Jacks. No matter what.

A knocking came at the storeroom door. "Alexandria? Are you awake? I've brought you some clothes." Alexandria shrugged the blankets off and stood. It was time to go looking.

The cawing of gulls in the distance was the first thing Jacks noticed. The second thing was the salty, wet sand in his mouth and nose.

He pulled his head from the beach, coughing and spluttering, spitting out sand and brine and wiping it from his face. He lay upon the shore, water lapping at his heels, the rising sun warm against his back. He had washed up at the Eastern end of town, not far from the Squid's End, and not far from home.

Jacks pulled himself up, head throbbing, and leaned against the seawall. He felt his side, where Harold had stabbed him; though sore, no wound was visible. Whatever dark magic had brought him back had healed him, too.

Up the beach was a narrow set of stairs leading back up to the streets. He had to go home and clean himself up. Alexandria would be worried about him. Jacks gripped the stone wall and pushed himself forward, finding his balance again.

He noticed his hand splayed out against the wall. The mark was still there. _The mark of the Outsider,_ Jacks thought. Caulkenny was no friend to occultists or witches, but it wasn't home to many Overseers, either. As long as he was careful who saw the mark, he would be safe. _No reason to bring unnecessary attention to myself,_ he thought. He tore a thick strip of fabric from his undershirt and wrapped it around his hand, concealing the mark from prying eyes, and headed for the stairs.

The streets were quiet and cold. Morning dew glistened on fences and lamp posts, and birds sang in the distance. Jacks trudged along the roads, cold but not shivering; something inside him had changed. He felt impervious to the elements, or at least more resistant to them. And deep in his gut, as he went over the events of the night in his head, there was a boiling anger.

Harold Caulfield had had no reason to kill him. He'd just wanted to feel in control. The Hooks were the most influential gang on the streets in this part of Caulkenny, and could feed their members ten times over. Harold didn't need to take the fish Jacks had caught himself. Jacks had never insulted Harold or wronged him, not even in school. Harold had always been the bully, and Jacks, always the victim, and that had come to a head the night before. Harold had exercised his strength over Jacks one final time, trying to end Jacks' life just to show he could. But Jacks was no longer the victim.

Jacks rounded a corner and saw his home. The window to the kitchen was wide open. He thought of Alexandria, and he worried for her. She could take care of herself, he knew, and wouldn't be afraid of Harold or his thugs. But there was three of them, and one of her, and he still worried. And thinking of what they may have done to her only made him more furious.

Across the street, Jacks spotted a bench with a series of freshly cleaned whaling implements laid out to dry. Among them was a long, heavy mincing blade, a handle at each end. Jacks went to it.

He hefted the blade in his hands and frowned. It was heavy. Glancing around, making sure nobody saw him, Jacks braced the tool against the ground and slammed his foot down against the middle of the blade. _CRACK._ It snapped in half. Jacks held one half in his hand and swung it-lighter now. Better. It felt good.

He walked back across the street and moved quietly up the stairs. The mark on his hand seemed to hum with anticipation.

Jacks tried to the door-unlocked. He turned the knob slowly and opened the door just enough to slip inside, closing it quietly behind him.

Harold lay asleep on Jacks' bed, his cronies passed out on the floor. Empty bottles of cider lay strewn about the place. Alexandria was nowhere to be seen.

He thought about killing them while they slept. _It would feel good,_ some part of Jacks told him. _They deserve no less._ But he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not like that. He would talk to them, first, and tell them to leave. Perhaps his coming back from the dead would be enough to intimidate them. He grabbed a bottle of cider from the ground.

 _CRASH._ The bottle shattered against the wall near Harold's head, waking the three Hooks violently. "What the fuck was-" Harold's eyes caught Jacks standing at the entrance, and his jaw dropped. The cronies stumbled to their feet, glancing between Harold and Jacks in awe.

"Get of my home," Jacks rasped. It was the first time he'd spoken since waking up on the beach, and his throat was parched.

"You should be dead," Harold snarled, then winced. He clutched a bloodstain in his gut. Jacks saw it and smirked.

"Looks like you've already had enough fighting for one day, Harold. I don't think you want anymore. Get out of my home. I won't ask again." Jacks remained defiant.

"Oh, really? You want to start this, Jacks? You got lucky last night. Today you won't. Today we'll make sure you're done. So why don't you go find somewhere else to live, as far away from us as possible. Safer for you that way."

Jacks stood, unmoving, and watched the cronies. They drew whaling hooks from their belts and stepped towards him. One was slightly ahead of the other-him Jacks would take first.

"You're a coward, Harold Caulfield," Jacks said. "And your gang is a bunch of slack-jawed fools just like you."

"Kill him," Harold spat.

The foremost cronie lunged at Jacks. He'd telegraphed it for too long, and Jacks sidestepped the lunge easily. Then he brought his mincing blade down on the cronie's neck.

It cut deep. Ribbons of blood splashed across Jacks' clothes, and the cronie screamed in pain, dropping his hook. He collapsed against the wall, clutching at his throat, trying in vain to stop the blood from escaping.

The second thug charged Jacks, yelling in anger and fear, and swinging his hook wildly. Jacks dodged the first two swings, but the third caught him in the shoulder. The hook embedded itself in the muscle there, and Jacks howled. Through the pain, he knew the hook was stuck, and the thug was vulnerable.

The jagged front end of the mincing blade slammed deep into the thug's belly. The thug staggered backwards, so Jacks pressed forward, and slashed outwards with all his might. The thug's stomach burst open, blood and viscera spewing out, and his body collapsed to the floor.

Jacks pulled the hook from his shoulder and walked towards Harold.

"You fucking maniac!" Harold cried, his voice cracking. "I'll fucking kill you!" He swung his hook at Jacks weakly, other hand clutching the wound in his belly. Jacks stepped out of the way and swung down with his blade.

 _THUNK._ Harold's hand, still gripping the whaling hook, dropped heavily to the floor. Blood poured from the stump wrist, and Harold screamed in agony, falling to his knees. Jacks tossed his mincing blade aside and grabbed Harold by the throat.

He felt it then, like a hot wave of adrenaline inside his body. It whirled like a tornado, concentrating in the mark on his hand, and Harold stopped screaming. His eyes went wide, and he shuddered.

The blood stopped flowing from Harold's wound. His eyes went pale and glassy, and color drained from his face. Hair began to fall from his head, and his skin began to pull tight across his bones.

As the hot, dark power flowed through Jacks, life disappeared from Harold's body. His skin cracked and went dry, and his eyes wrinkled into empty sacks.

Finally, all that was left of Harold fell from Jacks' hand. When it was finished the only remains were dust and bones. Jacks stared down at the detritus in awe and horror.

"Jacks?"

He spun around. Alexandria stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a current of air from the open window behind her making her hair flutter. "What have you done?" She whispered.

Jacks searched for words.


End file.
